Hand to god, I had a dream about Luckyshirt last night. He said I didn’t look like he’d thought I’d look and I said he looked exactly how I thought he’d look because I’d seen ten million pictures. I’m trying to make this sound not-gay. Anyway I was introducing him to my friend and realized I had no idea what his real name was. When I said “and this is, uh…” he leaned in and whispered his name to my friend.
I couldn’t hear what he said. It was like Lost in Translation.
And then the dream transitioned into me hanging out with Tenacious D and worrying about Kyle Gass because he looked so thin and gaunt. These are seriously the kinds of dreams I have.
Like many white people, I’ve been listening to a lot of Beatles this week. And then reading a lot of opinions about the Beatles. It reminds me of when I first started drinking and it suddenly became extremely important that I communicate to everyone in the room how great this band is. And then I totally got laidn’t!
Anyway I agree with the people who say Abbey Road is the best one (although Past Masters Vol. 2 is suddenly a real contender) but I certainly do not agree with those who have anything bad to say (“Tedious!” “OMG when will it end!” “BO-ring!”) about what I have just decided is my favorite Beatles song: “I Want You (She’s So Heavy).”
Like many white people, I first heard the Beatles at a very young age and so their music went straight through my gelatinous fontanel and got in there good before I had a chance to protect myself. But even then I didn’t cotton to the cutesy, kiddy songs. I preferred the ones that made me feel uneasy and confused (“yellow matter custard dripping from a dead dog’s eye” activated something terrible in me) and that remains true to this day, this day when I listened to “I Want You” over and over and each time every hair on my manly hairy body stood on end.
I march into a costume shoppe and say I need a Prince costume, immediately.
The woman behind the counter smells of fake fur. She says: Which prince? I roll my eyes and say: Uh, Prince? His Royal Badness? Specifically Purple Rain–era. Long purple coat with a chrome thing on the shoulder. You know. Frilly shirt, high heels. I will provide my own eyeliner and faint mustache.
She says: I really don’t think that fits you. I say: Are you calling me fat. She says: I’ve got something else in mind. I say: What. She says: A stormtrooper.
She disappears behind a heavy fog of curtains. And OK, I get excited. When I was a kid I wanted so bad to have a stormtrooper uniform. The white armor, the scary mask, the utility belt, the intercom, the clacking of the boots. And maybe it says something about me that I didn’t want to be Darth Vader or Han Solo, I wanted to be one of the faceless drones who gets shot and falls off things. Fine. It says something, then.
This thought is still lingering when she returns and whisks the plastic off a vintage Schutzstaffel uniform complete with black cap, double Sig Rune insignias, shiny boots, the works. She says she can let out the waist a little bit and it’ll be perfecto.
My voice shakes with rage as I cry: That costume goes against everything Prince stands for! She shrugs. I say: I am going to report you! She says: Of course you are, that’s your nature.
What the hell does that mean. I run out of there and go home and read twelve pages of The Diary of Anne Frank, which I own.
kfan asked me if I could make a seamless loop of this one little part of this excellent song and so I did. Here’s about a minute of it.
Just part of my ongoing mission to edit songs to people’s liking free of charge. See also: In The Fade (Faded). Screw all you haters who say I give nothing back to the community. Screw you to death forever.
The bar where I write is called The Connection. I like it because it’s dark and next door to the BBQ place. The men are quiet except maybe once an hour when they get really extremely loud. It reeks of sour deodorant. Good Times is usually on the TV, muted.
You can’t get beer there, and I like that, too. Guy who runs the place will make any cocktail as long as there are two ingredients or fewer. Happy hour is more like fifteen minutes.
I first went there because my father said there was this guy I had to meet because he knew everything about dry cleaning, and man did he have some horror stories. I was like: What the hell kind of horror stories are there in dry cleaning. Pop was all: Hoo boy, prepare to have your hair professionally curled.
So I call this guy and he says to meet him at The Connection, which I guess is where he went to forget about all the crazy shit that went down with the martinizing machine. I show up but don’t see anyone with a white carnation in his lapel. When I ask the bartender if he’s seen this dry cleaner, he points his chin at an empty table in the far corner. He says: That’s where he sat every day, right up until today when his lady comes in here and says he’s dead, boo hoo he’s dead, all raising a ruckus. Blaming me for his cirrhosis, as if I held the man down against his will for thirty years.
I said: I don’t like ruckuses. It seemed like the right thing to say. Then I said: What’s your policy on writers. He said: Good drinkers but bad with money, and usually homos. I nodded and ordered a whiskey with no e. I went back the next night, and the next.